In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  And one week later, the three Obsidian men were still the only three who knew that Fitzwilliam Darcy wouldn’t be returning to Liz.

  With emotions momentarily in check, Knightley sat beside Rick in the rented SUV, driving through the mountainous countryside from Asheville to the Darcy farmhouse. Barely conversational himself, he observed how Rick’s jaw clenched, the swollen veins on the man’s temple, and his wane complexion as he no doubt, played the horrors of what they’d seen through his mind for the millionth time. Rick’s hands tightly grasped the Escalade’s steering wheel, and not because of the winding roads. Those two glasses of wine he’d drunk on the short flight were hardly the reason. They were to be the bearers of horrible news, and as brokenhearted as they were, they needed to be strong for her.

  “You’ll put the obituary in the papers, right?” Knightley broke the silence between them.

  “I’ll take care of it—maybe say something about a diving accident in Bermuda. The best we can hope for in this situation is that exposing Iceman as the culprit in explosions, Diablo will move on.”

  “Right. It doesn’t seem right, does it? Darcy dead—Morales alive.”

  Rick sighed. “I’ll have Sarah make the funeral arrangements back in Virginia while I’m in California breaking the news to Georgiana.”

  “We should have called Liz sooner, let her know we were coming, let her know that I’ll be staying around for a few days.”

  “No. It’s better that we just show up.”

  “Man, what the hell are we going to say?”

  “Not we … you. He wanted you to do it. I’ll have enough on my hands telling Darcy’s sister and their dear friends, the Reynoldses. And I can’t guarantee that I wouldn’t fall apart when telling her. Shit. That’s the last thing any of them need to see.”

  “This is a fucking nightmare,” he groaned, resting his head back against the seat. His heart squeezed.

  “It’s damn real.”

  “Are you gonna … ya’ know … tell Liz the details? She’s the kind of woman who’ll want the details.”

  Rick glanced over to him with a horrified expression. “What are you crazy?”

  “I’m sorry … I’m not thinking straight. You’re right. That’s one genie you can’t put back in the bottle.”

  “She doesn’t need to know anything other than there’s no body to ship back for burial.”

  “What are you gonna say when she asks why?”

  “So then you tell her that her Navy SEAL husband was blown to shit and devoured by sharks!” Rick shouted. “That all we found was his mangled rebreather and a half-chewed fin, that there had been enough blown flesh floating in that canal and washed out to sea in the storm to bring two dozen sharks into the bay!”

  He heavily breathed. “Fuck. This sucks,” he moaned, looking out the window at the passing landscape. His fingers toyed with the pin and he shook his head in despair.

  The truck turned up a gravel drive, scraped by the trees lining its perimeter, and instinctively Knightley’s pulse increased. This was it.

  Suddenly a copper-haired guy, with pistol drawn at eye level stepped out from the trees directly into their path.

  “Jesus!” Rick startled, slamming on the brakes.

  “Out of the truck,” the guard commanded.

  As instructed they exited, halted at the open doors, and raised their hands in front of them.

  The guy spoke into the walkie-talkie pinned to his tactical jacket.

  “We’re here to see Mrs. Darcy. I’m Rick Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin. Are you Dixon?”

  “No.” Carefully, he walked to them as another armed guard came down the drive, shotgun slung over his shoulder, and eyes fixed on him. “What’s your business with Mrs. Darcy?” red asked patting Rick down then removing his billfold from the inside pocket of his suit. He tossed it to the other “kid” headed toward Knightley.

  “We’re here with bad news,” Rick dourly replied. “About my cousin …”

  “He checks out,” the other guy said after looking at the contents of the wallet. “Are you Knightley?”

  Darcy must have prepared them well in the event of anything; there was a familiar blankness to both their expressions, as though they’d seen hell and “bad news” was par for the course. “Yup. John Knightley. It’s the chrome that gives me away, huh? Are you guys Army?”

  “Drive up and park around back. Someone will meet you to take you to Mrs. D,” the redhead said with no acknowledgement to being former military.

  The farmhouse was huge and for a split-second Knightley considered Darcy one lucky devil, but caught himself.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked Rick.

  “No. When he came to work for Obsidian, he purchased this place for him and Georgiana. She’s in Laguna Beach now, and the Agency kept me pretty busy. I could never get away from the DC area for pleasure, and then there was the whole Caroline issue. I didn’t tell him I was dating her—and we were sort of connected at the hip.”

  “Hmm … Do you think Liz’ll continue living here?”

  “I don’t think so. She’ll probably sell it to you if you ask. If I know Liz, she’ll head back to her father’s estate.” Rick parked the truck beside an open barn, which at one point most likely had been an old tobacco barn. The Ferrari and a black Harley were parked within.

  Up the drive, the two guys lumbered behind them and a third came out the back door of the farmhouse. The dark mien on his face was frightening.

  “Is he dead?” he bluntly asked followed by a blink to his eyes and a subconscious pull-back of his shoulders.

  Rick just nodded.

  “Bad business. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you Higgins?”

  “Yes. Mr. Darcy’s personal security. I take it you’re here to tell his wife?”

  Drawing his lips into a thin line, the former Marine nodded again, calling on that inner strength of his.

  “She’s out back with Dixon. Follow me.”

  Side-by-side the three men walked through the trees toward the symphony carried in the breeze. With each step, the music grew louder as they drew closer to the source, filling the mountain air with a majestic Aria that only an opera lover could appreciate, but Knightley wasn’t one of them. What would be considered a siren song to some, felt ominous to him. All that female shrieking made the hair on his arms stand on end.

  On any other day, the image Liz presented to them would have mesmerized him, and he did—once again—consider Darcy a lucky dog. For even with the news they would impart, she would always be Darcy’s. Not even death would take him from her. No other man could fill Fitzwilliam Darcy’s shoes. His hold on her was too great. At that thought, he wanted to weep for her and, in truth, for his own losses. He had loved Katie, but she didn’t have the mettle to overcome the shadow of death and sought to place blame—as justified as it was—in the accident.

  Liz stood in the middle of a grassy clearing with the sun beating down on her. Strapped around her thigh, a multi-knife sheath carried several throwers below denim shorts; her shining, brunette waves fell around a floral T-shirt. Her security detail Dixon was overseeing her practice session; the burly guard handed her one of the longer knives displayed on a makeshift table supported by two construction saw horses. A diva’s shrill voice emanated from the portable CD player at the edge of the table.

  Dixon, of course, spied them watching her but did nothing to break her focus. Yeah, he knew by the expressions on their faces and the suits on their backs, particularly when Rick’s lip’s tightened and he slowly shook his head.

  With utmost concentration, she stared down the paper “man” target tacked to a tree, delicately held the thrower’s tang in her hand, rocked it back and forth, and then released it with a measured flick of her wrist. The blade held its velocity and height for 25 feet before making contact in the center of the target’s head.

  “An Iceman kill shot,” Rick softly said, clearly admiring her accuracy after such a
short time of instruction. It was bittersweet given that Darcy couldn’t witness it. In many ways she’d been his protégé.

  “Mighty fine toss, Mrs. D. It’s amazing how far you’ve progressed this summer.” She leaned back on her heels and admired her proficiency, arms folded across her full bosom.

  She spoke with beaming pride, evident by the tone in her voice. “I know, right? I’m a far cry from that boring kindergarten teacher in my past life.”

  But Higgins, standing beside Rick, broke the spell by clearing his throat.

  As though time had slowed, she turned to face them; in recognition, a broad smile quickly spread on her face and then her mind caught up with her impulsive greeting. The enthusiasm slowly receded in dawning awareness that the two miserable-looking visitors stood before her without the man she was expecting.

  Knightley half-smiled, conveying sorrow rather than joy at seeing her.

  Her hand flew to her heart and she stepped back taking a panicked, labored breath. She said nothing, but even from their distance he could see her complexion turn white as a ghost. She knew.

  Abruptly she turned from them, running balls out into the trees.

  Dixon held his hand up to them, halting them from their pursuit and then he was gone—hot on her heels.

  The music ominously continued to play. He hated opera.

  ***

  “Mrs. Darcy! Liz!” she heard Dixon yell from behind her as she weaved through the trees, her heart pounding furiously, trying to outrun the news they brought with them.

  No! she fought, but her cascading tears knew otherwise. A branch lashed at her face, but she kept running, narrowly missing other low hanging ones. “This … is … not … happening.”

  Ripping the Velcro knife sheath from her thigh, she ran faster, panting wildly.

  “Liz! Stop!”

  Unable to catch her own breath, she didn’t care that the poor man sounded winded and kept running, hoping to outrun him. Hastily, she glanced over her shoulder to gauge his distance, but it was her downfall; she tripped, falling flat on her face into the leaves.

  “No, no …” she cried, and no longer able to run from her fears she violently wept, balling into the fetal position when the wracks took hold off her and her emotions poured forth. No one needed to tell her what she saw written on their faces. No one needed to tell her what their manner of dress meant.

  “No! You promised, Fitzwilliam!”

  Had he? He’d known long before he left, sensing his own demise, like all men who lived on the edge. Why else would he have made their last day together so special for her?

  Pulling her legs into her curled body she held them close, uncaring about the scrapes and knot forming on her head. Her tears soaked her dirty face and the leaves pressed to her cheek. Tighter still, she buried her forehead against her knees, holding them to her, willing this moment to be only a nightmare, not a reality.

  “I’m … I’m sorry …. Mrs. D,” she thought she heard Dixon’s heavy panting, hand on the tree trunk beside him as he attempted to catch his breath.

  “Tell me I didn’t see them? Tell me he was behind them, in the trees, come home to me,” she sobbed, tasting the dirt on her legs.

  Like the father or brother she desperately needed, Dixon managed to sit her up into his arms, cradling her with shelter in the storm. “He wasn’t in the trees. Darcy is gone, Liz. He’s gone.”

  “Nooooooooooo,” pulled from her lungs.

  The pain shot through her heart with halting truth as it ripped from her chest. Uncontrollably weeping against him, he just let her emotions and tears flow without a word. All she heard was the sound of her shattering sobs pounding from her lips, shaking their one body. The tears tracked down her cheeks, filling her mouth with the bitter salt of life, love, and death.

  “I’m sorry … let it out, darlin’.”

  She didn’t know how long she sat there crying, but this man, this stranger-turned-family, finally stood then scooped her back into his arms, carrying her through the woods to face her husband’s brothers.

  “He’s dead. He can’t be dead.” She blubbered, resting her head on Dixon’s shoulder, letting the tears silently drop onto his solid support through the trees, into the field and back toward the house.

  “Do I have to face them?”

  “Not if you really don’t want to, but Mr. D would want you to be strong.”

  “I can’t … I don’t want to hear it. I can’t bear it.”

  “I know, but you must. I’ll be right there beside you, and those fellas love you.”

  They neared the side of the porch and she whispered with a swipe to her cheek. “You can put me down now.”

  Her legs felt wobbly as she climbed the porch steps to the front door, like they would buckle and collapse under her, but Dixon was right there holding her waist. She felt as though her heart would pound right out of her chest and just stood at the closed screen door, blankly staring at it, but discerning the men within. In her hesitation, the horror came, the fear of those words, and then more tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping from her chin. Biting her top lip, she was sure it bled. Her fingers beat against her leg and she looked up, but her eyes were tightly sealed.

  He came behind her—not Dixon—but Fitzwilliam, and his ghostly voice whispered into her ear, “You got this, Lakmé. You’re stronger than even me.”

  No. She wasn’t, but she’d try to be.

  Reaching for the door handle, her fingers trembled until Dixon’s hand clasped over hers, opening the door.

  Immediately, John and Rick stood from the sofa, and Nick came from the kitchen holding a tall glass of water. Four warriors who represented different parts of her husband’s life, all loved him in one way or another struggled with the reality, two had been commissioned to break it to her and two there to keep her from killing herself.

  The air felt heavy with a cloud of dark disconsolation. Silent mourning and unspoken grief draped the room in a black veil.

  Immobilized, she saw the tears prick Rick’s blue eyes, but he, too, stood stoically. Surprisingly, it was John who came to her, wrapping his strong arms around her body in a tight hug, but her own arms hung lifelessly at her sides.

  “I’m sorry, Liz,” he quietly comforted, and when she felt his body lurch, she knew he was crying. She hugged him back because she knew that, John understood her absolute shock and pain.

  When he drew back from her, his tear-filled eyes locked with hers. “There’s no easy way to do this but giving it to you straight is the only way. Let’s sit down and talk about what happened in Bermuda.”

  Her cousin held out his hand to her and she took it, taking a seat between both men; although squished, the heat of their bodies felt comforting in light of the chill invading her entire being. Every movement she made seemed heightened, outlined with a clarity of 3D as if she was in a movie—just the understudy, not the headliner to her own life.

  She looked over to Dixon seated beside the fireplace, and he smiled thoughtfully, encouragingly.

  “It was quick,” Rick said, the muscles at his throat flexing. “I promise you, there was no pain whatsoever, Liz.”

  Mind frozen, she nodded but words failed her; questions were superfluous. She didn’t want to know “how it happened” just the “how can we reverse time?” Her tongue felt thick with dryness and she swallowed hard.

  “We were diving … I planted the C-4 on a yacht, and he affixed the explosives in and outside an underwater cavern where the cartel hid a narcosub for trafficking through a mangrove swamp. Something went wrong with either Darcy’s remote or the explosive device, and when he neared the cave to examine, both blew. We don’t know the cause of the delayed discharge, only the heartbreaking result.”

  Her breath caught at the image in her mind and her strangled words came out. “Did … did you … find him?” Again, her breath came short and fast as she sucked in air in the struggle to stay alive.

  Rick’s cold hand squeezed hers and in what felt lik
e slow motion she looked up at him. He hopelessly shook his head.

  “Then … he could still be alive. He’s alive. He … can hold his breath … a really long time.”

  “No, Liz,” John solemnly said. “He’s not alive.”

  “I can’t believe that.” Turning slightly to face John, she begged. “You know him, John. You know what he went through in SEAL training and how he can survive anything.” She suddenly remembered all his promises. “He’s alive; I’m sure of it! He gave his word that he’d be back and he always keeps his word!”

  He shook his head, but she wouldn’t believe him, couldn’t believe him!

  “Rick, you know that Fitzwilliam wouldn’t allow himself to get killed. He’s alive—I know it to be true. This is bullshit!” She pleaded as if she could convince them all, but her cousin just stared with tears in his eyes at her, too upset himself to say anything.

  “I wish to all that is holy that was true, but it’s not. Liz, what Rick can’t say because it’s too painful is that … we found him …” he swallowed hard, “in … pieces.”

  Horror-struck, she couldn’t speak. The room suddenly swirled around her; her body swayed from left to right. Falling like the black curtain of her consciousness, she fainted onto Rick’s lap.

  8

  Requiem

  August 20

  Virginia

  This wasn’t how Liz expected to return home.

  Behind huge black sunglasses, her red eyes wanted to cry, but there was nothing left. After a week with Gigi in North Carolina, both lost in abject despair, the tears had bled her dry; she was lifeless now, devoid of will to think, feel, talk, or even move. She just stood there, looking up at the sky. At that moment, all she noticed were the dark storm clouds above the Darcy family cemetery, rolling across the sky; the wind pushed them aside, making room for the darker ones and creating eerie shadows over the headstones. Subconsciously, she searched for a sliver of white cloud, the metaphoric silver lining, and tried with all her might to conjure the memory of the magical sky over their starlit moon dance. Remembering was too difficult; her mind was a foggy, cloudy haze of nothingness.